Clearance
by QuinnLark
Summary: What if the man you fell in love with and married wasn't who you thought he was? And the name you spoke in your vows and whispered when you came apart in his arms wasn't actually his? The truth hurts, as do the choices. Winner of several awards in the Maybe HEA Contest! Welcome to this Cold War world.
1. Chapter 1

**Clearance**

From the Maybe HEA contest.

Thank you sooooooo sooooo sooooooooooo much to Fran for betaing this story!

Enjoy!

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Now

Her

I stare at the wall, thinking of the way life has turned out; where it was, what it became, how it might end.

What a perfect place to start: The moment I decided, he needed to die.

He was the perfect man, once the stabilizer of my clumsy life and unbalanced world. I was a traditional girl, but he respected that; even went out of his way to meet Daddy and get in his good graces before asking for my hand.

I married him right after college, when I was full of ideals, dreams, and ambitions, and I loved him passionately for all I imagined him to be. It was almost too perfect, and maybe I should've taken the hints that fate was tossing me, but I was too focused on rainbow skies, China patterns, and wallpaper.

Someday, we could've taken the world apart and put it back together with our eyes closed, but we never had the chance. It was all a lie, a façade I never knew I was part of until the very end.

"Bella," he pleaded. Anger and fear and frustration filled his eyes as we stood on the wooden dock, sirens screaming in the background, alerted by anyone who'd heard the gunshot and struggle—but they would be too late. He was bleeding for me, literally … from where I had sliced the flesh during the fight in Daddy's kitchen only an hour earlier. His words were of love, beseeching forgiveness. Too little, too late, so they say; not after what he did. "Please don't do this. We can get away, we can get out. All I want is you, Bella. You're everything. Think of the baby."

"I am thinking of the baby!" I screamed. How dare he bring our unborn child into this. Was he fucking kidding me?

"We can fix this. My government … they'll fix it. People like us, we're survivors, babe—"

"Don't you dare call me that again." My words were punctuated by the reverberation of a .357 caliber bullet leaving the barrel of my Smith & Wesson Magnum.

—-

Then

Her

January 3, 1984

"Bella?" My husband called from the front door. Our house was brand spanking new in a great little development at the end of a cul-de-sac. Smiling out the window, I had tall ideas of handsome boys who were little replicas of their daddy, running around and playing street hockey out in the driveway. Hmm. Maybe someday soon. We'd only been married four months, and though I was ready for kids, I hadn't pushed the subject.

I hefted another box onto the kitchen island before answering, "In here, honey." My voice echoed through the mostly empty house. Thankfully, the moving guys would be bringing the furniture the following day because I couldn't wait to see it all come together.

Emmett smiled and raised an eyebrow as he entered the kitchen. I loved my handsome, ginger-haired man. He was so dashing in his suit. "You got a lot done, Bella."

I nodded and lifted my arms to display my handiwork. "Did you have a good day at the office, sweetie?" I asked, taking his briefcase and setting it down before pouring a glass of wine for him. I knew his routine well in the four short months we'd been married, how he preferred to unwind after a long day at work.

He appraised my efforts before winking at me. "Happy to be finished. What's for dinner?"

I loved when he asked me simple things like that; I loved that we existed in this sweet little place in time. Housewife and hard-working husband. Next on the agenda: babies. We'd begun discussing this, sparsely tossing it into casual conversation, as one would add pepper to soup—sparingly, to avoid overcomplicating the flavors of early marriage. Well … I'd begun the discussion; he would rather have avoided all mention of the b-word like the plague. But, not to worry. I knew my husband was a tough nut to crack, and it was a good thing I bought nutcrackers for the utensil drawer.

We were living the American dream, just as we were supposed to. Daddy raised me to know this is what I was meant to do. There was nothing quite like having a U.S. General for a father. He'd taught me my place in life, as well as getting Emmett a job at a private firm, contracted to the Pentagon. Family connections were the best.

"There's a meatloaf in the oven," I answered, jolly and at ease, pulling ketchup from the newly stocked refrigerator. "And homemade French fries are cooling."

His smile was as perfect as I knew him to be. "Fantastic."

—-

Him

I wish I could have loved her the way she loved me. I watched her try so hard to make me happy, and maybe in some other place and time, or maybe in another life, it could have worked. Nevertheless, I did't have such a luxury in the time permitted me—not in this world.

Because I am not who she thought I was.

To her, I was Emmett Daniel McCarty, the son of a coal miner and seamstress from a backward place called Kentucky. To my wife, I was a private contractor for the Pentagon. To her, I was Prince Charming.

But I wasn't really any of those things.

I was Edward Kulakov, and I was damn sure not a good, all-American boy. I was born in Stalingrad and raised in Havana, the son of two Soviet nationals, and a product of my papa's return from destroying the Germans in Berlin. The government sent him and Mama to Cuba to raise and prepare me for infiltration; it was all I've ever known; the only air I'd ever breathed.

When I went to my new home office after dinner, it wasn't to finish the paperwork from my day but to package and prepare the intelligence I'd gathered for the pick-up later that night. There's a strict, thorough schedule we adhered to, and the hive was nothing if not precise. I knew my orders, and I followed them, even if it meant leaving my wife in a cold bed at two in the morning.

She was the perfect objective; my government did well. The only daughter of the Chairman of the Joint Chief of Staff. It scared the hell out of me when they first told me my target and my mission, but then I saw her. And heck if my wife wasn't a beauty. I couldn't have asked for anything better from Moscow, and yet there was no sign of happiness in me.

She wanted to start talking about kids, and the very idea terrified me. Unfortunately, she had no idea that her mission was in line with that of her own enemy. Moscow had mandated I begin to procreate immediately; as such endeavors could throw off a tracker easier than any hairpiece or disguise. People wouldn't expect a Soviet spy to marry a general's daughter and make his grandbabies.

People didn't expect said General's son-in-law to be plotting the assassination of him, either.

Expectations can go to hell.

—


	2. Chapter 2

Her

I hadn't expected to come to bed after dinner to a room lit by candles or Kenny G playing on the turntable. I certainly never expected Em to kiss me the way he did or say what he said.

"Let's make a baby, Bella."

It took a moment to find my breath, and many more to find my voice. He'd never, ever, wanted to discuss children, and suddenly he'd approached me on the subject. There were moments when I was in awe of the way the stars aligned, and they just kept doing so for me. The first time was when that handsome, delightful man asked me to dinner a year earlier, the second was when he married me, and the third was that very moment.

Our lovemaking was always … Well, what I hear lovemaking is supposed to be, but this time was different. He was a man on a mission; gentle and rough in the same moment. He gave and took, and ensured I had all of him. I could see the concentration on his face. He wanted this. Truly.

And the passion took me all the way.

I screamed out as the pleasure he gave me rippled around the part of him within me, and he did the same. The way he moved over me, remained inside and kept his semen deep within me, told me this was the real deal.

We were going to make this baby, and our life would be perfect.

—-

Him

I wished the sky would fall on my head. It pained me to use her in such a way, but my patriotism was stronger than my concern for this woman. I was more obliged to _them_ than to her. The needs of the many trumped the needs of my little American wife.

When her eyes fluttered close and her breathing grew heavy and steady, I slipped from the bed and dressed with haste. I hoped the seed in her womb took and blossomed quickly, because I felt like a bastard for doing it. It was true that I enjoyed our physical relationship; it was the only part of the entire situation I found enjoyable. _Making love_ to a woman I _didn't_ love, made me the greatest actor; no, it made me a well-trained officer.

I gathered the intel I'd prepared and notated the acceptance and confirmation of the initial process of insemination. Taking the life and intimacy and emotion out of the process helped remove me from my body's desire to care. Moscow reached as far as my bed, and their power knew no bounds. Even my wife's womb was not off-limits.

The drop was simple; a quick slip to the men's room at Vicki's Diner and the package was left for pickup in the toilet bowl of the second stall. I even made it home before Bella roused and asked me to turn on the ceiling fan.

I knew the routine.

Routine kept me alive and undetected.

Until it didn't.

—-


	3. Chapter 3

Her

Each week I tested my urine, peeing on a stick and hoping it found the hormones that said I was pregnant. The first five tests read negative. The sixth, positive.

 _Wait! Positive! Oh my god!_ It was happening. A baby was created and growing within me. Em would be over the moon … hopefully. Heck, I was over the moon! Nothing brought a family together more than the making of a child; it united everyone.

I should've waited for him, waited to take the test until he was sitting on the bed, waiting for me to emerge from the bathroom with a grin splitting my face. But I just couldn't contain myself. It was too monumental to be placed on the back burner of his business trip—his millionth of the young year.

I'd wait, holding the test, smiling; preparing for the moment he walked through the door and I could present him with our future.

And it would be perfection.

—-

Him

My sweat mixed with Clorox on the floor, washing away any remnants of the blood that poured from the man's throat when I slit him from ear to ear. He was the second Secret Service agent I had to dispatch in as many months. I mentally add him to a list consisting of an FBI woman from two weeks prior and a janitor who got in the way while I was tossing said woman's body in a dumpster after chopping her into thirty-three pieces.

Each year, in a world with so many rules of engagement and secret warfare, my hands had become more and more bloodied by the dead bodies of the Capitalists. There was a world I'd been fighting for back home that I hardly remembered, but would never stop fighting for. It was but a distant memory. For I was married to these war games we played and they pressed me forward until there was nothing left to stand on but the ideals.

I walked through the door of our house—the greatest façade of my life—at half-past one in the morning. It was dark inside: shadowy and still, and for a brief moment it almost created a bit of peace for my madness.

I set my keys on the kitchen island, listening to them clink on the marble countertop, and turned to pull the refrigerator door open. The cold air hit my sweat-dampened skin like a breeze on a cool, Havana night. The only things I remembered from home: balmy days, mild winters, and my commitment to the cause.

The kitchen light flipped on overhead, and my eyes snapped back from searching for a late-night snack.

"Where were you?" Bella asked.

It pained me at times to look at her. She was so American in every way. Thin, heart-shaped face that had never seen suffering or hardship, a soft curtain of brown hair, and perfect pink lips which loved to kiss me and feel the way my body responded to her. It all began as a forced reaction, yet each day that passed found my body less forced, more natural. I wanted her in ways I should not have.

"Em?" she asked again when I was lost in my thoughts of her.

"Sorry, yes." Where was I? "I had a flat on the way. It's not fun to change a tire in the dark."

Her face softened—the way it always did when a hint of brewing suspicion was miraculously washed away by my lies. "Are you okay, love?"

"Just fine," I said with a shrug.

Bella bit her lip then, a trademark tell I knew quite well. She had something to say, and, by the way the blood rushed to her cheeks, I had an idea of what it might be. And I didn't want to hear it—not yet. It was too much.

"So, Em, I—"

"I just need a shower," I cut her off quickly, watching with a mixture of relief and guilt as her shoulders slumped: shut up, shut down and done.

—


	4. Chapter 4

Her

Maybe he was scared to hear about the baby, _or perhaps_ the light in my eyes had pained him. Em never did have a family of his own. Orphaned at two, with nothing more than a story of where he came from, he grew up bouncing from one foster family to another. I was his first real home; his first and only steady place.

So why didn't he want to hear about the baby he asked to create?

In the four weeks that passed, I hadn't yet worked up the courage to revisit the issue, and the doctor confirmed that I was already ten weeks along at my appointment three days earlier. Em withdrew deeper into his head and his work, and I began to feel the lonely sting of suburbia mixing violently with morning sickness. I'd barricaded myself in this cul-de-sac with only boxes and saltines to keep me company.

—-

Him

I knew she was pregnant. I woke each morning when she rushed from the bed to surrender her stomach contents to the toilet. Moscow was satisfied with the quick fulfillment of this piece of my objective; it brought everything into perfect alignment for the final phase.

And it wasn't that I was purposefully neglecting my expectant wife, I'd just learned how truly exposed I was. The Feds were onto me. The last mission in Miami hadn't gone as smoothly as we'd all hoped.

We had a dinner planned at her father's house that late spring evening and she'd surely make her announcement then. The general would smile and congratulate us; he'd think lovingly of the wife he'd lost when Bella was just a child. He'd raise his glass to toast the creation of new life, and then and there I would I snuff him out. A bullet between the eyes would likely do the trick.

The thought of doing this in front of Bella was … unfortunate, but the time had come. Just the night before, I'd been given the missive. _Fight; flight_ , it read. It couldn't be clearer: _kill the general; get out or I'd be dead within the day._

For many years, General Swan had been a most active and intricate part of the war on my people—more so than Bella could fathom even if she were to learn the truth. Today that would end, and I would save many lives by taking his.

I created a child in her to seal her to me. For even after her father was dead on the floor, she would never turn her back on the man she loved and the baby she carried; it was the only insurance I had before my midnight exfiltration.

And she was coming with me.

—-


	5. Chapter 5

Her

"Hi, Daddy," I smiled up at him, kissing his clean-shaven cheek and stepping back to salute him the way I'd always done since childhood. My daddy was my hero, and the world needed more people like him.

"My Bells," he sighed softly, returning the salute with a wink. "You're glowing, Princess. Happy to see your old man?"

I felt the blood rush to my cheeks but didn't respond as Em came to stand tall and firm behind me. I couldn't very well announce my pregnancy to my father before telling my husband the happy news. Perhaps, tonight, I would be able to tell them both.

Daddy offered a glass of Scotch, my favorite, pre, formal dinner indulgence, and I watched the knowing look dawn in his eyes when I refused.

It was almost time.

We moved to the dining room where Sue, the housekeeper and cook for the Swan household since my early childhood, had prepared a beautiful dinner of potatoes, roast, and fresh vegetables. I'd suspected that she was Daddy's secret love for years. I steeled myself for the assault of smells on my sensitive stomach but was relieved when they had no adverse effect.

Daddy allowed Emmett to take his position at the head of the table, as he usually did in the intimate gathering of father, daughter, and son-in-law. He hoped the inclusion of Em into the fold would loosen his reserve. After a quick prayer, we began to eat—me more ravenously than the others, grateful at last that my stomach was allowing me some sustenance.

"Emmett," Daddy said, sitting back in the chair with a satisfied grin gracing his mouth at the end of the wonderful meal.

"Sir?" my husband answered, turning his distracted attention to my father. Emmett seemed amiss, lost to his thoughts as he so often was.

"I've got a feeling there's something you and my Bells want to share," Daddy continued. "Is this right?"

Em looked at me for a long moment without answering, and a million emotions rolled over his face in tumultuous waves—emotions I'd never seen before.

Then he stood and pointed a gun directly at Daddy's head.

—-

Him

I'd spent hours in that house and that dining room, watching the loving father and daughter converse about politics, weather, and the niceties of life; watched the minutes tick by as Bella served apple pie from the kitchen. Each second that passed brought the end that much closer. She always could find a way to make the time with her father fade into oblivion—such was the strength of their love and bond, and now it would come to an end.

Before Bella could answer with the news of her pregnancy, I rose from my chair and lifted the gun from my lap.

Years ago, perhaps, General Charles Swan would have been much quicker to react. Now, however, he was an old man—an old man with thousands of guilty stains marring his medaled chest. And he would pay so I could be free to go home to my people and a new life.

Bella screamed, but it died in her throat when I held up a hand to silence her. This had to be done quickly.

"General Swan," I spoke firmly. "My name is Edward Kulakov, and you, Sir, have been found guilty of war crimes against the Soviet Union. The punishment for such crimes is death, and I have been selected as executioner."

"Bells…" he whispered, looking at my wife in confusion. I knew she could say nothing; the ghostly whiteness of her skin revealed the shock filling her system and overriding her thoughts.

"She knows nothing of this, General, but I can assure you that she will be safe with me."

A single bullet was all it took to put him down.

And a single bullet was all it took to snap my wife from the shock.

She ran.

—-


	6. Chapter 6

Her

He shot my father.

 _Daddy!_

A monster. I married a monster.

My life was perfectly normal five minutes earlier, and then my father was dead on the floor and I was running away from my own husband. But I couldn't run far or fast enough; he stopped me in the kitchen with an arm around my breast, pulling me forcefully against his chest.

"Bella, stop," he hissed in my ear. "Stop struggling, it will make this much easier if you don't resist."

But I couldn't stop. I clawed at his arm and kicked against his legs. "Let me go!" I yelled. "Let me go!" I reached for the kitchen island and the drawer I knew held Daddy's collection of knives. My father had done me a great service by teaching me to defend myself. I stumbled, grasping for a blade. The steel I held in my hand parted Emmett's—Edward's—skin and allowed me to free myself from his hold. I spun toward him, blade first, and felt the fabric and flesh rip under the pressure of my swing.

His grunt of pain hurt me as I knew I had caused it, but the thought of my father's lifeless body slumping to the floor minutes before quelled all concern for the demon I'd wed. The gun fell from his grip in surprise, allowing me the moment I needed to reach for it and gain control.

I lifted and steadied the heavy metal and watched as he slowly raised his hands in surrender

This

Wasn't

Over.

"Walk," I ordered, following him out the back door and toward the dock where Daddy's fishing boat was tied

—-

Him

She'd never know the part she played in that finale. I cried for mercy, stalling her finger on the trigger, as long as I could while Peter Silayev—my handler, poised to extract me—stalked silently toward us from behind her. I told her I knew about the baby.

Of course, I knew.

I told her a small truth in a big lie. I did love her. As much as any man can love a woman he knows nothing about; one who knows him even less. However, I'd promised to take care of her, and, from one father to another, I would keep my word.

"Please don't do this. We can get away, we can get out. All I want is you, Bella. You're everything. Think of the baby."

"I am thinking of the baby!" she screamed at me, her words hoarse and pained.

"We can fix this," I assured her. Her heart and emotions might have been collateral damage in this game, but her life and the baby's didn't have to be. "My government … they'll fix it. People like us, we're survivors, babe—"

"Don't you dare call me that again." She pulled the trigger just as Peter reached her and pushed a rag, soaked in chloroform to her mouth. The bullet missed its objective—my heart—by many feet, and I rushed to her to check her pulse. She was alive and breathing evenly, but we had no time to lose.

I lifted her into the general's boat, and Peter helped me untie it from the dock and push out into the midnight black ocean to meet our escape.

—-


	7. Chapter 7

Now

Her

Moscow, USSR

January 2, 1987

The cell is damp and musty, so symbolic of my rotting life. Moscow is cold in autumn, freezing in winter, and it's been many seasons since I saw my daughter. I don't even know what Edward has named her—though probably some Russian name that will mean nothing to me, like Natalia, Tatiana, or Katerina. I try not to think of her, because with thoughts of her, come thoughts of him, and painful, aching memories of our failure.

I gave birth to her in this small cell; labored for hours and nearly died of the hemorrhaging. They should have let me die, but they were too cruel, even at my most vulnerable moment. Edward held my leg and whispered encouragement, and I hadn't the strength to push him away and his child from my body at the same time. Then he took her from me. Scooped her from my arms and followed the doctor from the room as black took over my vision.

That was so long ago.

Rusted locks squeak and protest the key twisting within, and the hinges require a bit of muscled encouragement to release and allow the visitors—guards or KGB or worse—access to my cell.

Worse, indeed.

The sight of _him_ used to pull such thrilled responses from my soul; now he's only a reminder of how much his lies have damaged me.

This time, he isn't alone.

A little red-haired girl toddles in beside him, dressed in a fur-lined coat and mittens as she enters my prison. My little American-Soviet girl, filled with a life I'll never know or understand.

"Tanya," he says, urging her deeper into the dank room.

 _Tanya_.

My heart bleeds, swollen and infected by the painful closeness of her beautiful face and sweet childhood, which still remain so far out of my reach.

I hate Edward.

I hate what he's done.

I hate that he continually asks and pleads for me to accept this evil empire and spurn the one I've spent my life knowing, to do it for him, for _her_.

I hate him more than I ever loved the façade of the world we created.

" _Mamochka_?"

My eyes, so tired and exhausted from the psychological torture I've endured … Exhausted from my displaced world, flash to life.

She knows me.

She knows who I am; he's brought her here to see me, her mother, who lives in squalor.

In chains.

A prisoner.

This is the worst form of suffering, because how is a mother to deny her child? I lift my arms in surrender. I want to be with her, even if it means becoming a slave of the Soviet Union. I only want to be with my daughter.

If it is possible, I hate him even more now.

He will pay.

Daddy taught me well.

 _Revenge is a dish best served cold._ Ice fucking cold.

Luckily for me, Russia is freezing, and maybe his intestines can provide the main course.

Retribution will come soon.

Someday.

Somehow.

—-

CLEARANCE.

A/N:

Thank you for taking this journey with me.

And guess what?

It's just begun!

Stay tuned for much more!

PS. Thank you for my absence from CN:T while I worked on this!


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Hello, all!

It's been a while since this piece was thought of. I cannot apologize because life requires my attentions, but I can say that I appreciate all of the love and support of my writing. Please check out _Hello LAlaland_ , my published novel at Amazon, Barns & Noble, and other retailers.

Enjoy!

xo

Q

—-

Her

Moscow, USSR

October 1988

It's been a long time since I've see the pure light of the sun, unobstructed by barred windows and frosted plexiglass. So long, in fact, that my eyes burn from the intensity of it and my skin instantly warms.

I am one of the lucky few who've managed to escape the death sentence of a forced labor camp, because somehow the man who calls me _wife_ has decided this small mercy should be mine. He doesn't realize I'd be dead already—by my own hand—if it was not for the little girl I birthed. She is as much mine as she is his, though he and his government will never see it this way.

An announcement was made to those of us in this concrete fortress: The systematic release of political prisoners would begin this month.

I am a political prisoner; this is what Edward has told me during his bi-monthly visits. These are the times he attempts to convince me to swear allegiance to his Mother Russia. I refuse; I don't even speak to him when he is there in the cell with me.

This day is meant to be a pardon and extension of freedom, as though this government has not vacuumed away years of my life like cobwebs. This sunshine and chilly, fresh air, they say, should show me my place beside my _glorious husband_ and the righteousness of his duty to the Soviet cause.

I've made a determination: I will be this supportive wife; I will cook his dinners; I will attend whatever political meetings are required; I will swear an oath of allegiance to his god and country. And as soon as he is comfortable in my devotion, I will cut his throat from ear to ear.

—-

" _Mamochka_?" her small, sweet voice calls questioningly to my sudden presence in the door of her home. Edward stands behind me with his hand at my back. It takes the will of a demigod to keep myself from shrinking away from him.

"That is correct, Tanya," Edward responds when words hang mute from my lips. "This is your Mamochka." His hand at my back presses lightly, urging me toward the beautiful, silvery-haired child. Her looks are striking, even at such a young age; she'll be breathtaking throughout her life, but will never understand the powers I feel within her unless I can get her out of this foreign world with me.

"Ta…" I start, the first syllable I've spoken in nearly a year. My voice is hoarse, cracking like dry pain. I swallow to moisten the desert in me. "Tanya," I begin again, "May Mommy give you a hug, sweet girl?"

The pause which follows feels eternal, but when her little legs break into a lightning-fast run, she is suddenly in my arms and the whole world is okay for a single, fleeting moment.

—-

A/N: Thanks for reading!


End file.
